This life holds its secrets like the sea
by stellamaru
Summary: Young Tom Riddle meets a snake in the grass. Gen.


_That man's soul has left him, his heart's as deadly as a rusted nail. That man sheds his skin like a veil._ "This Street, That Man, This Life" -- Cowboy Junkies 

* 

Snakes shed their skin. They slither out of the old, papery scales and greet the world in fresh finery. Tom liked this. 

Tom found an empty skin once, a dry echo of the creature it had been. He kept it in his trunk with his prayer book and a small collection of intriguing pebbles. 

When he learned he could talk to snakes, he wasn't surprised. He'd read of such things in a battered copy of _Wonder Stories_ he'd found in the boys' lav. 

It was little garden snake, basking on a flat stone in the June sun. Tom was searching the grass for interesting objects when he nearly trod on the snake. 

"Watch yourssself," the snake said, twitching its tail. 

"You can talk," Tom said, squatting down to look closer. 

"Polite boyss ssay 'how do you do' when they meet sssomeone," the snake said, uncurling to look at Tom. 

"Um. How do you do?" Tom said, not wishing to be thought impolite by the most interesting thing he'd ever found in the grass. 

"Very well, thank you." The snake flicked its tongue in Tom's direction. 

"How can you talk?" Tom asked, picking at a hard scab on his knee from where Sewett had got him with a hoe. 

"With my mouth," the snake said. "You are the one who can hear me." 

Tom rocked back on his heels. He liked that; it made him feel special. "You'd best watch out for Mister Sewett," he said, picking at the scab till it bled. "He doesn't like snakes in his garden." Or grubby little boys from the orphanage. 

"Yesss, I know," the snake said. "Iss he your... parent?" 

"No!" Tom said quickly. "I haven't got parents." 

The snake hissed. "Everyone hasss parentss." 

"You have?" 

"Yess. My egg came from ssomewhere." 

"Well. My mum died. My da- father left. I live at the orphanage," Tom said. Somehow, saying it to the snake didn't make his stomach churn. 

"Orphanage?" 

"It's there," Tom said, waving up at the large gray block of a building on the hill. "It's where children who haven't got parents go to live before they're old enough to work." 

"Ssso. It iss your egg." 

"No-- it's not like-- I don't know," Tom said, pulling up a clump of grass. "What did you do when you hatch-- when you came out of your egg?" 

"I wasss lucky. My egg wass the only one to hatch." The snake raised its yellow-striped head. "I went to look for ssomething to eat." 

Tom frowned. "What was it like, in your egg?" 

"Warm." 

"It's not warm in the orphanage. Sometimes, it's so cold my fingers won't work properly." He threw his clump of grass. "What do you like to eat?" he asked, changing the subject. 

"Toadss. Plump, juicy toadsss." If the snake had lips, it might have licked them. 

"Yeucch," Tom said, pulling a face. "They're slimy." 

"Yesss..." the snake hissed, bobbing its head dreamily. A soft breeze brushed Tom's hair, and he closed his eyes, listening to the quiet, nonsensical hisses from the pleased snake. 

* 

He felt the breeze change, and heard the clang of metal against stone before he could open his eyes. 

"Gerroff!" The harsh growl was familiar. Mister Sewett glared down at Tom, a spade in hand. On the stone, the snake was motionless, its head neatly severed from its body. 

"No..." Tom said, staring at the snake's corpse. 

"Bugger off, barmy little brat!" Sewett said, raising his spade at Tom. "And stay out of my bleedin' garden." 

"No!" Tom yelled. He stood up and faced Sewett. Something boiled deep within his chest. "No." 

Sewett stared at Tom, who had always run away in fright when caught in the garden before. Then he dropped the spade, and stared at his hands in horror. 

Where his fingers had been, ten small snakes now wriggled and hissed. Tom watched Sewett's expression change from anger to fright. "Go away," Tom told him, and Sewett left, just like that. No one had ever done what Tom told them to, just like that. 

* 

The snake was cool, but snakes are always cool. Tom gingerly picked up the small, yellow-striped head and set it on the stone. "Come on," he whispered, trying to bring back that feeling that had made Sewett's hands turn into snakes. 

He touched the still body; it was firm and smooth. "Please," he said in the snake's hissing language. The snake didn't move. 

So this was death, he thought. This had happened to his mother. Her body had been just as unresponsive, cold and meat-like. This was what Janey Hibbert had looked like, when they pulled her out of the river last September. Tom hadn't been allowed to see. 

Tom picked up the snake and hurled it across the garden, as hard as he could. "Stupid snake," he said. 

He stretched his arms to the sky; his old skin crackled loose, preparing to reveal his new finery. 


End file.
